


diplomacy

by boulevards



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, International Relations, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:56:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17333078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulevards/pseuds/boulevards
Summary: the profession or activity of managing international relationswhile grindelwald is gallivanting around the world, the british ministry of magic is building up a network to take him down (and the relationship between the department of magical law enforcement and the department of international magical cooperation has never been better)





	1. immobulus

Hector Fawley, the British Minister for Magic, sits at his desk with the most unperturbed demeanor she has seen on anyone’s face in months. He’s smiling, too—perhaps someone accidentally hit him with a Cheering Charm earlier or he’s just being his normal overly animated self. He sports his signature jolly grin as if completely unaware of the threat brewing outside the Ministry’s walls. (She laughs internally at this—how _ironic_. Fawley might as well be totally oblivious to the entire situation considering his stubborn disregard for all the recent incidents.)

“Maia, how is your brother? I haven’t heard much about him in a while. Is he well?” he asks, filling up the space of his office with his flat and nasally voice. Or, rather, what is left of the space in his office: overflowing bookshelves line the walls with wobbly tables pushed against them. Papers, folders, and books assemble into precariously stacked towers on top of each table like poor attempts to construct models of New York City’s soaring skyscrapers. Awkwardly placed chairs lounge in random corners of the office, some buckling at the knees and on the brink of collapse.

Fawley’s eyes are glued to her face and he leans toward her, paying no attention to the scathing glare that Torquil Travers, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, shoots his way. Though he exudes confidence, she sees the slight hesitation in his eyes. Earlier, she had seen the tiniest flash of pure terror dart across his face when Travers barged into the office scowling in such a way that could send anyone running away with fear. She knows he’s asking about her brother to ease the tension, to avoid the discussion that he knows is coming.

“Which one, sir? I have four,” she responds, deciding to play along with Fawley’s game for a while. She could use a break from all the conversations about pressing international issues, no matter how short it may be. A light tapping of a shoe sole on the floor signifies Travers’s obvious annoyance, which she brushes away before focusing back on Fawley.

“Oh, yes. That’s right, that’s right. I’d forgotten you had so many siblings. Sirius, I meant. How is he?”

She hasn’t spoken to Sirius, her oldest brother, in nearly a year and only hears about him when her mother or her other siblings mention his name. (It was Christmas, at their childhood home for the annual Black family gathering, when they last saw each other. They talked about his granddaughter Lucretia’s first birthday and how their aunt Elladora might have had a little _too_ much to drink.) They had never been close, not even as children, the sixteen year age difference forcing a physical divide between them. He had moved out of the family home when she was only three years old and thus she never had the chance to talk with him often, only seeing him around the holidays.

“He’s doing well,” she says to Fawley, recalling something her brother Cygnus had told her recently. “His children are all grown up now, so he spends most his time at our family home taking care of our mother and reading the sports section of the _Daily Prophet_.”

In the corner of her eye, she spots Travers’s foot beginning to tap faster.

“A good man and dutiful son, that Sirius,” Fawley says, voice becoming soft as he reminisces about some event or memory pertaining to her brother—perhaps when he had completed some task exceedingly well or done something that made him a hero in Fawley’s eyes. “Well, let him know that he’s welcome to come back to the Ministry whenever he would like.”

Maia may not be very close with her brother Sirius, but she _does_ know that he hated every single second of working for the Ministry. Once, she’d heard him describe it as a “revolting pit.” Another time, a “deplorable sack.” And, when she entered the Ministry after graduating from Hogwarts, he’d sent her a strongly worded letter on why she was making a horrible decision.

She smiles thinly, “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Good, good–”

“With all due respect, Minister,” Travers interrupts, ceasing his irritated foot-tapping and finally growing too impatient to listen to Fawley’s feeble attempt at stalling, “I don’t believe we planned this meeting to give praise to Maia’s brother, did we?”

“No, no, no, Torquil. Of course not,” Fawley laughs nervously. “If we had done that, I would have certainly invited the both of you for tea.”

“Sir, we should be discussing Grindelwald,” Travers states, disregarding Fawley’s light-hearted comment and cutting directly to the point.

At the mention of the dark wizard’s name, Fawley’s jolly grin falters and his posture grows stiff. Maia watches carefully as his eyes flicker quickly between her, Travers, and a glass paperweight shaped like an occamy sitting on his desk. He stutters out, “And wha– what about him?”

“He’s a threat, sir, and we _should_ be working to capture him,” Travers says. He adds on, muttering under his breath so that only Maia can hear him, “We should have begun efforts to capture him the moment we received news that he escaped his transfer from New York.”

Fawley takes a deep breath, regaining his untroubled demeanor and plastering a smile back on his face, before speaking in his much-too-optimistic tone, “Oh, lighten up, Torquil! As of this moment, Grindelwald poses absolutely no threat to the wizarding world. I don’t see why we need to concern ourselves with those kinds of matters.”

“That’s _ridicul_ –”

“Sir, I believe Torquil hasn’t explained himself fully,” Maia cuts in before Travers can explode into irritated screeching like a Howler she’d once received from her mother after punching Thomas Avery in the face during her sixth year at Hogwarts. “You see, the longer we allow Grindelwald to frolic freely, the more time he has to gain influence and support. He’s a _growing_ threat—it’ll become more difficult to stop him if we continue to ignore him.”

Fawley chuckles, “Grindelwald? A growing threat? Quite honestly, I don’t see how he could gain any kind of significant following. His message is far too radical for anyone to _want_ to support him.”

Maia holds back a scoff and the urge to tell Fawley that he’s completely wrong. She’s heard rumors of shifting opinions from her family, her friends, and even from the random conversations that she’s heard in passing while strolling through wizarding London. She’s caught whispers of members in the pureblood community beginning to side with Grindelwald and people carefully muttering under their breath into someone else’s waiting ear, “Maybe, he’s _right_.” And she knows for a fact that Vinda Rosier cut herself out from her family to join him not long after his escape—her sister Belvina told her all about it one night at a dinner with the two of them and two of their four brothers. (“I heard from Annabella Nott that Vinda’s father doesn’t even mind,” she remembers Belvina saying. “He agrees with Grindelwald, too, he just never publicly voices his support. At least he’s not a crazy fanatic like Vinda is.”)

Fawley continues on, not noticing the thin line that Maia’s lips draw into or the concerned look that Travers gives her when she tenses up at the previous remark, “So, even if Grindelwald is a ‘growing threat,’ what would you like to do about it?” Even in his cheerful tone of voice, it sounds like a challenge. And, when he lifts his hands to put air quotes around the words “growing threat,” she realizes that she has never wanted to punch someone more than him.

“Well,” she states, suppressing her developing annoyance, “we know that Grindelwald is looking Credence Barebone, the Obscurial. He believes the boy is the key to his success. And, since we just recently found out that Credence survived the incident in New York last winter, we should be working with other ministries and magical governments to search for him and ensure that he doesn’t end up with the wrong crowd.”

“And what’s this boy’s location got to do with finding Grindelwald?”

“Wherever Credence goes, we can expect Grindelwald to follow. Finding him will lead Grindelwald right to us.”

“Are you suggesting a trip to New York then?” Fawley’s face lights up like a first-year sewing Hogwarts for the first time. “Do invite me to come along when you go. My, I haven’t visited New York in quite a few years! The last time I was there, I accidentally walked into a Muggle pub and asked for a Firewhisky. The man was completely baffled!”

Travers’s foot begins to tap again, counting up each fraction of time wasted by Fawley straying from the gravity of the matter at hand. Fortunately, he catches himself and pushes himself back on topic without another exasperated interruption from Travers.

“I apologize. I digress,” he says, maintaining his easygoing grin. “Now, what was I saying earlier? Oh, right, New York. You wanted to go to New York?”

“No,” Maia replies, “not exactly. New MACUSA reports show that Credence left New York weeks, maybe even months, ago. So, obviously, we won’t find him there. He’s somewhere in Europe. Where, precisely? We don’t know yet.”

Fawley leans back in his chair, resting his clasped hands on his stomach before remarking, “If you don’t actually know where the boy is, specifically speaking—and where Grindelwald will be—then I see no point in immediate action. Europe is a large area to cover. You could get lost quite easily. You know, once I was backpacking through Austria and Switzerland and I lost my way–”

He stops when he becomes aware of her and Travers sending him judgemental glances. (She wishes that, just for _once,_ he could get directly to the point without any deviations.)

Fawley clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak again, “Look, I agree that our Aurors are very skilled and accomplished but you can’t expect them to search every nook and cranny of the continent. My, that would be quite tiring. It would be a waste to act when we don’t actually know where we should be searching. I think our involvement can wait until we receive reports of sightings in exact locations.” He sighs, reflecting for a moment, then continues on, “I told you two the same thing before the New York incident happened—and I believe that was a little under a year ago! Interesting how time passes so quickly.”

“There’s a difference between what’s going on now and what was happening then,” Travers remarks, ignoring Fawley’s small distraction. “A year ago, we didn’t know where Grindelwald would be–”

“And, a year later, you still don’t know exactly where he is,” Fawley cuts in.

“We can find him,” Maia reasons. “We know what—or rather, who—he’s looking for. A year ago, we were lacking a lead. Now we have one.”

“But, how long will it take to find this Obscurial boy? And, after that, you’ll have to wait until Grindelwald gets to him. That’s time and effort that we could be spending on other issues. It will be more efficient if we just wait it out until Grindelwald actually shows up somewhere. Besides, he’s not in Britain. I think I would know if he was,” he lets out a small chuckle. (Maia stops herself from rolling her eyes.) “And, therefore, he’s not in our realm of concern. We have domestic problems to take care of. These economic troubles aren’t going to simply fix themselves.”

“The whole point is that we act _immediately_ ,” Travers snaps. “We know how to find him and we know what we need to look for in order to do so. We don’t have any time to be sitting around and waiting for Grindelwald to pop up and announce his location. And this is _entirely_ in our realm of concern. This is an international issue and it is _imperative_ that we are involved.”

“Torquil, relax, dear friend,” Fawley sighs defeatedly. “There’s no need to get worked up. If this matter really is that important to you, I suppose you can send out an Auror or two to search for the boy. Credence. That was his name, right? Or meet with President Picquery in America, but I doubt she knows anything about his whereabouts—other than ‘not in New York.’” He sighs again, “I still think there really is no need. I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time.”

“And I’m telling _you_ , I respectfully disagree. Grindelwald must be stopped as soon as possible if we are to contain his spreading influence,” Travers says stiffly, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a frown. He pushes himself up from his chair and checks his watch before heading towards the door. “I believe we are finished here. We’ve had a _swell_ time speaking with you, Minister.”

“Leaving so early?” Fawley jokes as Travers opens the door and steps outside the office. “Feel free to stay longer. I could tell you more about that pub in New York that I mentioned earlier or my hiking trip through Austria and Switzerland.”

“No, no, it’s fine. We don’t want to intrude. I’m sure you have more _urgent_ matters to attend to,” Maia fakes a sympathetic tone, standing up to follow Travers. “Thank you for your time, Minister,” she says as Travers forcefully pushes the door shut.

They’re silent as they walk down the hall to the lift, but she can feel the annoyance radiating off Travers. He walks rigidly with his hands balled into fists at his sides and with deliberately heavy footsteps. She feels bad for whoever is on the floor below, directly underneath of Travers’s aggravated stomping.

It isn’t until after the lift doors close, when she feels it beginning its lurching descent to Level Two, that Travers speaks.

“I’d hex him if he wasn’t the bloody Minister for Magic.”

She can’t help but agree, “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk m8 i wanted to write a theseus thing but also go into fawley not giving a fck and everyone in the ministry being stressed


	2. nebulus

“‘That’s time and effort that we could be spending on other issues,’” Travers states, scrunching up his face in an attempt to mock Fawley’s nasally voice. He drops the imitation before scoffing loudly, “ _Ridiculous_. Issues like what? The economy? How much sugar he needs to put in his tea? He’s _delusional_.”

His last remark, though understandable (and let out in an irritated half-laugh half-sneer), adds another item to the constantly growing list of topics that she and Travers have disagreeing views on.

In her eyes, ‘delusional’ doesn’t fall quite as nicely into place as Fawley’s main descriptor as ‘deliberate’ does. Though she isn’t too fond of the Minister or his plan of action regarding Grindelwald, she wouldn’t go as far as to say that he’s a complete idiot. The economy _is_ in need of attention—she isn’t the first to admit that—but she knows that Fawley is only focusing on it to convince himself and the rest of the wizarding world that Grindelwald’s increase in influence isn’t a real issue. He’s attempting to minimize the panic that the situation will cause by covering it up with other significant, but not as frightening, problems. (Fawley’s choice isn’t half bad, ignoring the fact that Grindelwald could very well devastate the structure of the wizarding community and that the entire situation desperately requires addressing.)

She wants to explain this to Travers, but, after glancing over at his downward-turned mouth and narrowed eyes, she suppresses the urge to do so. Instead, she laughs lightly, shifting the subject to ease the tension and prevent Travers’s annoyance at Fawley from boiling over, “Well, I suppose I’ll be drafting correspondence notes as soon as I get back to my office. Send me a list of names as soon as you decide which Aurors are on the search team.”

“I’m going to hold off on that, actually,” Travers states plainly, (thankfully) growing noticeably calmer with each second that passes. He elaborates when he catches the questioning gaze she shoots toward him. “I’m not sure who will be sent out yet. I’ll have to discuss it with Theseus. But, Newt Scamander is appealing to have his travel ban lifted in…” he lifts his arm and pulls back his sleeve to check his watch, “about half an hour. I presume you’ve already heard about it?”

“Yes, I have. Theseus was telling me about it this morning,” Maia replies, recalling how the aforementioned man had been fretting about the hearing all throughout breakfast. She had taken note of how, every few seconds, he would run his fingers through his disheveled hair or rub anxiously at the sides of his face. Standing in front of the stove and tending to the eggs, she had watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye as he paced agitatedly around the kitchen while fixing himself a cup of tea and voicing his concerns about his younger brother. (“What if he says something stupid?” he sighed out loud as he reached for the sugar. “No, he won’t. He’s smarter than that, right?”)

Travers continues on, “We’ve decided to lift Scamander’s travel ban if, and only if, he agrees to become an Auror and take the job to find the Obscurial. If all goes well, we’ll leave him to handle the task.”

“And if he declines?” she asks, knowing full well of the certain disdain Newt holds toward Aurors. She’s heard many times from Theseus about his dislike of strict rules and regulations, and the Aurors who enforce those laws. (Surely, it’s a contributing factor to the strain in his and Theseus’s relationship.)

“Gunnar Grimmson is willing to do it. And I’ll organize a small group of Aurors as a backup,” he says. Just as he finishes speaking, the lift comes to a screeching halt and the doors open to reveal the headquarters of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Travers steps out of the lift and nods his head toward her before the doors slide shut again, “I’ll send you an owl after the hearing.”

Then, the lift begins another lurching descent—this time, down to the Department of International Magical Cooperation’s headquarters on Level Five.

“Maia!” a voice exclaims as she’s finally stepping into her office. Peeking her head back out the door, she spots her assistant Sean Robins—a lanky and quick-witted man, and a great source to talk with to get updated on departmental gossip—sauntering down the hall towards her. “How was the meeting with Fawley?” he asks. “He didn’t talk your ear off, did he?”

“No, thankfully. We would’ve been there for ages if Travers hadn’t kept butting in to keep him on track.”

“Classic Travers,” he chuckles. “One angry look from him could shut anyone up.”

“Except maybe Alderton,” Maia quips, poking fun at the overly loquacious man, well known throughout the entire department for being an incessant stream of babbling. “I heard from Franklin that he won’t stop talking about how much he loves his Cleansweep One.”

“You mean, the broomstick that he bought last year?” Sean laughs and Maia nods in response. “Well, I suppose nothing can stop Alderton from saying what he wants when he wants to. That man can talk for hours on end. Anyways, here’s the revised alcohol regulations from the Trading Standards Body. Warren is requesting that you approve them as soon as possible.” He hands her a folder with papers haphazardly shoved into it.

“As soon as possible?” she sighs, her expression souring at the mention of the bitter and beady-eyed man. Even though she knows that without Oliver Warren, the head of the Trading Standards Body, a decent portion of the Department of International Magical Cooperation would be in a state of disarray, she has never liked him. He’s prickly and bad-tempered (even more so than Travers is on a bad day) and she’s convinced that his name is the first entry under “cranky” in a dictionary.

Sean shrugs, “His words, not mine. Also, President Picquery’s response to your letter arrived.” He pulls a crisp envelope from his jacket pocket and passes it to her. “The meeting is set for tomorrow at three o’clock in the afternoon—ten o’clock in the morning if we’re talking New York time. It works out perfectly. Your calendar was totally clear for tomorrow before this came along, of course. And, I’ve already contacted the Portkey Office about travel arrangements. Everything’s all set,” he flashes a smile and turns to leave, taking a few steps away from her.

“Wait,” she calls out and he halts, pivoting on his heels to face her again. She looks pointedly at him, “You’re coming with me, right?”

“Of course. Who else is going to help you navigate your way through MACUSA?” he laughs, turning away again and heading down the hall. (Times like this serve as reminders of how fortunate she is to have him helping her.)

Less than ten minutes pass by before she finds Sean in her office again. He sneaks in quietly, careful not to disturb her, pinching a folded-up note between his fingers. “An owl just arrived with this,” he says, placing the note on her desk. He’s delicately stepping out of her office seconds later with a soft click as the door shuts, disappearing as quickly as he came.

When she unfolds and glances over the slip of parchment paper, she’s met with Travers’s cursive scrawl. “Scamander declined,” it says. “Notes to France, Germany, and Spain should suffice for now. Will send a list of Aurors soon.”

Maia reads over the first two words again, picturing the way Travers’s expression sours when someone makes a decision he doesn’t like and the way he leans back slightly so that his nose turns slightly upwards and his gaze immediately becomes condescending—a look she has been on the receiving end of far too many times to count. And she can already see an upset Theseus running his hands through his hair, can already hear the way his voice shakes when he’s rambling in distress, wondering if he and his brother will ever find something that they can agree on.

 _Scamander declined._ She isn’t surprised at the outcome, but it puts her on edge. It draws her back to the nagging feeling lurking in a corner of her mind, the one that can’t help but question every minute detail and seemingly unimportant thing. It reminds her that she still doesn’t fully know how to tackle the whole Grindelwald issue (and neither does Travers, even if he acts as though he does). Sure, step one: find Credence and step two: capture Grindelwald seems easy when it’s described at its most basic level, but situations with this kind of gravity never play out as smoothly as she would like them to. There are too many variables and too many questions: How long will it take? What if they don’t find Credence? What if Grindelwald already has him? And, if all goes accordingly, how will they know that Grindelwald won’t escape again? He snuck his way out of MACUSA’s iron grasp and slipped through the Swiss ministry’s hold—there’s no way they can be sure.

Part of her thinks that he can and _will_ be stopped: the Ministry’s Auror department has never been stronger and, with a solid network of alliances with other countries, they could bring Grindelwald’s reign of terror to a screeching halt. But, the pessimist within her maintains that it’s already too late: Grindelwald is too powerful, they waited too long to act. (She’s constantly attempting to push this thought out of her head.)

Maia sighs, the tip of her pen hovering over a blank piece of parchment paper. For now, all she can do is write.

Hours later, a knock on her door echoes throughout her office, cutting past the light of the warm (albeit artificial) early evening sun, seeping in through the large enchanted windows that her desk faces away from. It draws her gaze up from her piles of work to the clock, it’s delicate hands reading nearly six o’clock. Sean pokes his head in and sighs dramatically when she glances semi-dismissively at him then down to the files lying on her desk.

“New gossip?” she jokes, continuing to scribble notes on the papers sitting in front of her.

He rolls his eyes, “No gossip today, just facts.”

“Oh?” she glances up at him again.

“Your husband is standing out here waiting for you,” he answers her inquisitive look, cocking his head out towards the hall.

“Tell him I’ll be out in a bit,” she waves him off. “This won’t take longer than a minute or two.”

“He looks pretty lonely. I think he needs someone to talk to,” Sean notes, looking pointedly at her as if trying to suggest an alternative to her statement.

“Could you keep him company for now? I’m just finishing this up–”

“Maia,” he groans, “go _home_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s some more stress-inducing ministry shenanigans (no theseus yet oops) and this chapter is a bit all over the place bc i tried to tie a bunch of stuff together and it’s kinda-sorta-maybe-not-really working out


End file.
